A Trope For All Seasons
by Lawson227
Summary: In discussing a common literature trope, long-held secrets—and regrets—come to light. Imagined scenes, set within canon of S6, through "Let's Du-Wop It Again." Shules exists, Carlowe exists, alludes to Lassiet. A slight reworking of an old story.


**A Common Trope**

**Standard Disclaimer & AN: **Yeah, yeah… we know the drill. Own not even a minority interest in _**psych**_, wish I did, or at least that I got to play in the writer's sandbox with them, instead of out on the perimeter of the playground. TPTB got everything, no infringement intended, etc., etc…

A story I wrote and originally posted in March 2012—while performing my semi-annual file perusal, I reread this one and was struck by how inadvertently prescient it had been. Coupled with how FF-dot-net has altered their filters to allow for a more accurate character representation, I decided to refresh it ever-so-slightly and repost.

Setting remains S6, through the events of "Let's Du-Wop It Again."

* * *

Another day, another stakeout.

At least for this case, it was just him and O'Hara, Spencer and Guster off on an actual reunion for their sleepaway camp. Hopefully sans murdering, revenge-seeking whackjobs. Spencer had taken along an industrial-sized can of pepper spray, though—just in case—at least, according to O'Hara.

Idiot.

Spencer, not O'Hara, of course. Although she _did_ insist on continuing to date the smoothie-obsessed moron…

Eh, Spencer did care—in his own Spencer-like way. Carlton just wished he could be less… Spencer-like in his expressions of affection toward O'Hara. At the very least, she deserved some basic consideration.

Beside him, O'Hara turned a page of the book she was reading. It didn't always used to be this way. Used to be they'd sit and talk—rather, O'Hara would talk, peppering him with questions and starting conversations as both of them kept an eye out for their potential target. Ever since his discovery of her relationship with Spencer, though, she'd withdrawn a bit, sitting silently with a thoughtful expression he could only interpret as moony—and who the hell knew Spencer could inspire such introspection?—or more often, bringing a book along. He told himself he preferred it. Harkening back to the days when he could sit in blessed silence and concentrate on nothing but the work. Not his personal life or lack thereof or peppy young partners who confidently informed him they didn't believe in inter-office romances. Or quizzed him about movies or Civil War reenactments or music or police code or whatever the hell flitted in and out of her brain.

Once again, O'Hara made yet another noise that sounded, to Carlton's ears, like disgust, followed by the distinctive sound of several pages being flipped in rapid succession.

"If it's that bad, I've got a copy of _California Police Code_ in the glove compartment," he offered without shifting his gaze from the building they were watching.

"What?"

He glanced at her, head still bent over the book, casual in jeans and a loose t-shirt, hair pulled up in a ponytail, the better to blend into the neighborhood in case they had to do any kind of footwork. He'd wanted to wear khakis and a polo, but she'd hit him with _that_ look and muttered something about this wasn't a country club sort of neighborhood, so he'd donned a pair of dark jeans with only a muttered grumble. At least he was getting to wear one of his well-worn plaid button-downs.

"I said, if the book's that bad, I've got a copy of the _California—_" He stopped short and returned his gaze to the building. "You know what—never mind. Shutting up now."

After a beat of silence she said, "It's not that the book's bad, it's just… so unrealistic."

The woman was dating Spencer and she was calling a _book_ unrealistic? And he really needed to stop. It was _her_ choice. And she seemed happy enough, when she wasn't actively considering killing him.

Leaning forward on the steering wheel of the battered pickup borrowed from Impound, he nevertheless found himself asking, "How so?"

When she didn't immediately answer, he chanced another look at her, finding her toying with the straw of the soft drink she'd had with their fast-food dinner. "The basis for the two characters getting together is the whole friends-to-lovers trope."

Meeting his gaze, she shrugged. "I guess I just find it difficult to believe you can be friends with someone for years—a lifetime, in some cases—and remain completely oblivious to any potential charms or attraction. And then some big misunderstanding—" Propping the cup between her thighs she made air quotes with her fingers. "All of a sudden wakes one or both of them up to the fact that they were meant to be together all along."

"You knew Spencer for years before you finally started dating him." Carlton wrapped his hands around the steering wheel and leaned back, welcoming the tension in his muscles as he stretched his arms. Imagined Spencer's pencil neck instead of the steering wheel and for God's sake—he _needed_ to stop. Her choice. Her damned choice. He dropped his hands from the steering wheel to his thighs.

"Most would say you were friends."

"That's different," she shot back immediately.

Of _course_ it was. "How?"

"For one thing, I was never exactly oblivious to his charms—it's just… with Shawn being… you know, Shawn—"

Yeah. He knew.

"It just never seemed like a good idea is all."

Clearly, _that_ opinion had changed. Or maybe it hadn't. Maybe she recognized it still wasn't a good idea, but just couldn't help herself. On that, at least, he could relate, seeing as one could argue that dating a convicted felon, especially as Head Detective of the police department that had arrested her wasn't exactly a good idea either. Yet, he couldn't seem to help himself.

_But that's different_.

Right. Of course it was. He supposed he should cut O'Hara some slack—you fell for who you fell for. And when someone actually _liked _you... Or relentlessly pursued you, as Spencer had O'Hara—

"As far as being friends…"

From the corner of his eye he could see her shrug again. "Outside of Gus, I don't think anyone really knows Shawn well enough to consider him a friend. He just doesn't let himself be known and that's… that's actually kind of part of what makes it exciting." A faint wash of color stained her cheeks. "You just never know what you're going to get with him."

"Sort of like Forrest Gump's box of chocolates," Carlton muttered.

"Actually, that's not a bad analogy," she replied, a thoughtful tone to her voice. "Sometimes it's sticky caramel, sometimes it's a hard nut, and sometimes, it's almost unbearably soft and sweet. And it's never what you expect when you bite into it."

_So what's going to happen when you get bitter chocolate filled with lemon?_

Not meant as a low blow—not really. More a reasonable expectation based on past behavior. Threats of violence aside, at some point, something was bound to happen to hurt O'Hara—for Christ's sake, something already had happened, in the form of Spencer shoving Frank O'Hara back into her life against her repeated and vehement wishes—and Carlton knew that was part of his irascibility where Spencer and O'Hara were concerned. What happened when it finally went too far?

Because he damn well knew it would.

"I'd think that sort of uncertainty would get old after a while," he replied as neutrally as he could. "Especially when you consider all the other uncertainties our job brings with it. I'd think a little stability in some aspect of your life would be… reassuring."

"You'd think, wouldn't you?"

He sighed. Yeah—you fell for who you fell for.

"So, end result, you don't think people can be friends and lovers?"

"Now wait, I didn't say that—"

She shifted in the seat to more fully face him. While he kept his gaze primarily focused on the building, he shifted slightly as well, giving him a better angle from which meet her gaze if necessary and indicating he was paying attention to their conversation. Not the likeliest topic he expected, not even one he felt especially comfortable with, to tell the truth, but hell, he couldn't deny it felt nice to be talking—_really_ talking—to her again. And judging by the way she'd shifted in her seat and the grin he'd caught a glimpse of she felt the same way.

A small gift, but he'd take it.

"It's the concept of starting out as friends and all of a sudden discovering that that person is The One that I'm taking issue with. I think a couple _can_ become friends—my God, they _should_. If they don't or can't—maybe that's when you realize something's not right."

_And yet—you say there's no way to really know Spencer. Is that what you really want, O'Hara?_

"And how well did _you_ know Marlowe you decided she was the one for you? When you decided to _buy_ a condo for her?"

Building be damned, Carlton fully met O'Hara's gaze, realizing too late, he'd actually spoken aloud.

"O'Hara—"

But she merely crossed her arms and cocked her head and fixed him with that _Well?_ stare she was so damned good at.

"I—" He tried again. "We had a lot in common from the beginning." Which was more than he could honestly say about her and Spencer. "And we've become friends."

"But you weren't friends to start with," she insisted. "And yet you still felt as if she was the one for you."

"Yes, O'Hara, you're right, okay? I wasn't friends with her, I sure as hell didn't know her, but yes, I still fell in love with her." He shoved a hand through his hair, slightly messy already in deference to their lower key appearance. "But that has no relevance to your argument."

One eyebrow rose, the dark blue of her eyes taking on shades of the twilight falling around them. "Oh?"

"Yes, oh." Mindful that they were still here to actually do a job, he turned to stare back out the windshield. Made for a handy excuse at any rate.

"Your argument is that two individuals can't be longtime friends and all of a sudden see each other as more." He wrapped his hands around the steering wheel, aware he was heading into seriously dangerous waters—knowing he should just stop, agree with her and let it go, but dammit, he couldn't. If not for now, then maybe for the future, because if there was one thing he knew, was that O'Hara deserved better than what Spencer could give her—at least right now.

There was a possibility the man could get it together and actually become a functioning, responsible member of society, and worthy of O'Hara, but you know, Carlton wasn't going to hold his breath.

"So you're saying you think it's a possibility?"

He knew he should face her—meet her eye to eye when he said this—but he just wasn't that brave.

He stared, mesmerized, at his fingers flexing, one at a time, around the wheel. "I know it is," he finally said, his voice as flat and emotionless as he could possibly muster. "At least, that it's possible to see someone as a friend and then all of a sudden, see them as more."

The words echoed through the small cab, cushioned by the oncoming dark.

Several moments passed before she quietly and ever-so-gently asked, "What happened?"

Turning his head, he met her gaze head on and very quietly said, "Nothing. I didn't have the guts to say anything to her. So I can't say what might have been." He took a deep breath. "It was someone I'd been friends with—only saw her as a friend for the longest time—and then, something happened. Something very serious. And I realized that if I lost her, I'd be losing my other half."

Her voice maintained that extraordinary gentleness that always made him hurt deep inside as she asked, "But if you felt that strongly, why didn't you say anything? See if she might have felt the same?"

That one was easy to answer. It sucked—but it was easy. "I already knew she didn't feel the same way. And if I'd said anything, it was entirely possible I might have lost her as a friend and that, I absolutely could not risk."

"Idiot," she muttered, loosening her ponytail and refastening it with jerky motions.

He sat up. "I beg your pardon?"

She paused, hands caught up in her hair, the light of the streetlamp bringing out even more shades of gold and honey. "Oh, not you, Carlton—the girl."

_Oh, irony_…

"She's pretty damned smart, O'Hara. Probably one of the smartest people I know."

"Know?" Both eyebrows went up. "You're still friends with this… person? How could you? Considering how you feel—"

"Because—I would rather be friends with you than not have you in my life at all."

_Son of a bitch._

The words had escaped before he could stop them and maybe it was a good thing. Maybe it was a stupid thing. Hell, he didn't know. He had no goddamned idea what he was trying to prove, if anything. Really, there wasn't anything to prove. They had their own lives, their own relationships, and maybe that's why he finally felt safe saying something. Because he knew her—he knew if he was still unattached, she'd likely feel weird and self-conscious, be worried that at any given moment he might fall to his knees or bound around, acting like some addlepated, lovelorn idiot.

No thanks—that was Spencer's shtick.

Mostly.

But on second thought—there _was_ something he wanted her to understand—that he hoped she would get in light of his unexpected confession: To not close herself off to possibility. To understand that love might just live in the unlikeliest of places. It didn't always have to come in the form of the Spencers of the world with their high spirits and exuberance and unpredictability and inevitable disappointments.

If she got that, well then, it would be worth dealing with the fallout of exposing his deepest held secret.

"I'm going for coffee. Keep an eye on the building—call me if you see anything."

Didn't stop cowardice from kicking in, however, propelling him from the truck and down the street, knowing she couldn't call out or come after him for fear of blowing their surveillance. Give it a few minutes, return with coffee, a couple of pastries, and typical cranky mood intact and she'd realize nothing had to change.

Walking, head bowed against the wind, he was also hit with the inescapable irony that in proving she was wrong, at least on some level, about the friends-to-lovers trope, he'd also provided ample proof of another:

Unrequited love.

* * *

"No, Shawn, I don't care how much trouble it was to order the Naughty Nurse costume while you were still in the hospital nor do I care how much it cost to have it shipped Express, I am not going to put it on just to give you a pain pill."

His eyebrows did that Groucho Marx thing he thought was adorable, but that Juliet found vaguely creepy and stalkerish.

"But Jules, it's not just for pill administering. There's the sponge bath. Not to mention, the therapeutic massage. I ordered DVDs—"

"No." She held the tablet out along with the pineapple smoothie Shawn had requested when he found out she'd be dropping by his father's house to check on him. Henry had after work plans and frankly, was probably tired of being Shawn's baby nurse. Juliet couldn't blame him. She'd tried to help as much as she could, but Florence Nightingale she wasn't—on a good day. After a long day at work and with a patient like Shawn who was exhausting when healthy? Frankly, she was shocked Henry was still coming home at night.

"Shut up and take the damned pain pill or I will ball it up in a piece of cheese and force it down your throat."

And again with the waggling of the eyebrows accompanied by a stupid grin that was entirely too familiar. Sad part was, too often, she thought that grin charming. Less often these days, though.

Exhausted, just from five minutes of dealing with him, she sighed and said, "Shawn, please take the pill."

She had no idea if her irritation had bled through enough to make an impression or whether it was simply his remarkable skill for self-preservation, but in an instant the insufferable grin shifted to a smile—a real one—that was so genuinely sweet, she felt her annoyance ebb. At least enough to keep her from killing him.

"For you, anything, Jules."

As he took the pill and washed it down with a healthy sip of smoothie, the rest of the brashness faded, leaving him looking tired and more than a little pale. It hadn't been so much the emergency appendectomy that had done him in as the exertion when he took down Jimmy, the murdering security specialist. It had been an unusually brave move for Shawn—of the type he'd been doing more often and she wasn't sure why. Physically taking guys down was so not his forte. And in this case, post-surgical procedure, it had left him with torn stitches and extra tenderness, requiring more pain medication, much to the dismay of Henry's wallet.

"Jules?"

"Yeah, Shawn?"

"Are you gonna leave right away?"

Damn. She had intended to. She'd intended to give him his pill, make sure he had whatever junk food he needed, then go home, kick her shoes off, take a hot shower, and put on her ugliest, comfiest pajamas.

It wasn't often, however, that he showed his vulnerable side—at least not without some ulterior motive—and Juliet couldn't deny, it was a difficult side to resist.

"I'll stay until you fall asleep, okay?"

She held her breath, half expecting him to come up with some ridiculous comment or suggestion, like they should play _Star Wars: The Old Republic_—and no, she would not don the Princess Leia gold bikini now or under any other circumstance—or Twister or watch an _A-Team_ marathon. Luckily, however, he really did seem to be exhausted and merely nodded and closed his eyes. Almost immediately, his breathing steadied and his hands, so often tense or moving, relaxed on the blanket.

Her heart stuttered a little bit as she stroked his hair back from his forehead, enjoying the rare feel of it without gel. He really could be almost unbearably sweet.

"More fun…"

She paused, worried that she'd been disturbing him, but no—other than a small shift on the pillow, he remained asleep—his breathing steady, except for the occasional giggly wheeze.

"More… fun to keep…"

Oh, she could only imagine. But she really didn't want to.

"More fun to keep things from…" Another giggle escaped. "Keep things from Lassie."

Juliet froze, staring at the small, blissful smile on Shawn's face as the giggling and muttering subsided into a true, deep sleep.

Keep things from Lassie? What on earth could he mean? What could he possibly be keeping from Lassiter that would make him _that_ happy? Juliet bit her lip—maybe it was just an off-the-cuff, dreamland remark. She wouldn't be all that surprised, really. It was kind of disturbing how much time Shawn devoted to yanking her partner's chain and how much enjoyment he derived from said yanking. Probably, that's all this was—yet another scheme or plan to get to Lassiter. But you know, Carlton had had a rough few weeks and really deserved a decent break from Shawn World. It was the least she could do for him. Once outside, she pulled out her cell and dialed.

"Psych, Burton Guster spea—"

"What, exactly, is fun to keep from Lassiter?"

"Juliet?"

"Yes, Gus, it's me, and if you try to lie over the phone, I'll know, because Shawn told me your breathing gets quicker, like an obscene phone caller and your voice squeaks like one of the Chipmunks."

"It does _not_—"

Sure enough, his voice rose on the last word, ending on a pronounced squeak, followed by rapid, shallow breathing.

"Gus!"

"I honestly don't know what you're talking about, Juliet."

"Just now, I gave Shawn a pain pill and after he fell asleep, he started talking in his sleep and said, 'More fun to keep things from Lassie.' What did he mean, Gus?" she demanded.

A resigned "Oh," was followed by a long, heavy sigh. "Yeah. You know when Shawn gave Lassie the tip about Tina?"

"The Asian Lori Petty?"

"Right. The organization's CFO. Anyhow, when Shawn gave Lassie that tip, he told me that Tina had also been volunteering at the Boot Camp."

"Which is where you, Tony, and Drake followed her to and where she pulled a gun on you."

"Right." Gus sighed again. "Shawn had a really strong feeling Tina would be at the Boot Camp rather than the community center, but he said he didn't tell Lassiter that because it was more fun to keep things from him."

The longer Gus spoke, the tighter Juliet's grip got on her phone until the tips of her fingers went numb.

"Gus, you guys could have been killed."

"We didn't _know_ that at the time," Gus protested, "and well—Shawn was feeling left out. He wanted to investigate the way we usually do, following the likelier lead—"

"While Lassiter and I wasted time scurrying around like gerbils in a damned habitrail. Dammit, Gus—"

Unable to think of anything to say that didn't involve language that would peel paint from the walls, Juliet abruptly cut the call off. Yanking open her car door, she dropped heavily into the driver's seat, sparing a narrow-eyed glare at the Spencer home. A vision of herself storming back in there and holding a pillow over Shawn's head was entirely too vivid and tempting.

She knew he often—hell, _always—_skirted the edges of the law, if he wasn't downright trampling all over them, and she knew he'd often saved their bacon because of his unconventional methods, but this… this…

For every one time he'd helped them or even outright saved Lassiter, how many others had he blithely sent her partner and by extension, her, off on some dead end chase? Damn him—how many other times had he withheld information for his own amusement?

To make Lassiter look like a fool?

All of a sudden, a vision of Carlton, nose bandaged, brandishing his gun as he kicked in the door at the gangbanger house appeared in her mind.

He hadn't let a broken nose get in the way of solving the case. Hell, he'd let his girlfriend _break_ his nose in the better interests of solving the case. Yes, it was extra beneficial that Marlowe would be getting a reduced sentence for her help, but Carlton's primary interest had been in finding ways to solve the case.

Carlton.

Always trying to do the right thing, no matter the cost to him.

Like...

Like...

Yeah.

It had been on her mind more than she wanted to admit to herself—his stunning confession from a few weeks back.

That night, after he'd returned with coffee and pastries and shut down tighter than a drum, she'd understood he intended to a) not say another damned word and quite possibly regretted what he had said and b) expected things to return to business as usual, which they had.

What he had said, however, _had_ stuck with her and she couldn't shake the feeling, that was precisely what he'd wanted. Not so much because he expected her to suddenly reciprocate—no… she hadn't gotten that impression at all, but more because he wanted her to wake up and smell the coffee as it were. To shake herself out of what she had begun to realize was a pretty limiting world view.

God, she'd been so damned smug and sure she was right and in a few quiet words, Carlton had shattered that misconception.

Carlton—her partner—her _friend_—had fallen in love with her, but knew she didn't feel the same. And rather than ruin what they did have, he'd kept quiet and watched as she had relationship after relationship, possibly hoping _maybe, maybe someday…_ before culminating with the one that had to have hurt him the most. Especially with the way she herself had treated him.

In retrospect, it wasn't any real surprise he'd wanted a new partner. No real surprise either that he'd finally closed the door on what had never been and allowed himself to fall for Marlowe.

She couldn't deny still being suspicious of the other woman, given how she'd insinuated herself into Carlton's life, and manipulated him. She'd been angry at Marlowe and at the Universe in general, because honestly, hadn't he been through enough already, tamping down the faint feelings of guilt at her own part in his misery.

And she'd remained worried right up until the moment she heard him mention Marlowe in passing and saw how… happy he was.

With the exception of the craziness surrounding his initial residence in his new condo, Carlton Lassiter had been happier than Juliet had ever seen him.

Scratch that—Carlton was just flat out happy. For the first time in the nearly seven years she'd known him he was truly happy, his eyes reflecting contentment and his demeanor even approaching relaxed on occasion.

And for the first time Juliet had seen him—really seen him—not just as her partner or her friend, but as a man.

_You could have done that. You could have brought that to his life._

She shook her head at the taunting voice. No. No she really couldn't have. Not without him saying anything.

Why hadn't he said anything?

It didn't matter what he'd imagined she thought and it didn't matter what she'd said about inter-office romances and it didn't matter that Shawn had always been there, flirting, occupying her space, never letting her forget that he was _right there_, Jules, even if they happened to be dating others, while by contrast, Carlton had simply been there. Quietly. In the background. Listening. Offering opinion but only if asked and even if the delivery was graceless and left something to be desired in terms of tact, she always knew he'd given her questions and opinions thoughtful consideration. He might say he wasn't comfortable answering, but never did he deflect with obscure 80s pop culture references that no one cared about.

And he knew—he _knew_ dammit—that she took his opinions seriously. That she valued what he had to say.

So why the hell hadn't he _said_ anything?

"O'Hara?"

She blinked up at Carlton, standing in his open doorway, looking down at her, brows drawn together, eyes dark blue with concern. The bandage was gone from his nose, but the faint bruises remained beneath his eyes. Without thinking, she reached up, then froze, her hand dropping as he flinched and took a step back.

"O'Hara, what's wrong? Why are you here?"

"Can I come in?" Because she was damned if she'd do this in a hallway. Especially with those twin sisters lurking about who had a creepy habit of appearing out of nowhere.

"Yeah… sure." Stepping back, he opened the door wide enough for her to pass through, then closed it behind her although he made no motion to move beyond the foyer.

"What's wrong? Do we have a case?"

Juliet watched him go through the motions of pulling his cell from his pocket and staring briefly at the screen before shaking his head and putting it away as if from a distance. Heard his "What's going on?" as if through a filter, tinny and somewhat faint. All she could hear clearly was the pounding of her heart and the question she had to ask.

"Was it after the clock tower?"

His face wavered, then sharpened into almost painful detail, the five o'clock shadow, the slight messiness of his hair, the pale bluish-purple bruises beneath his eyes and the intense blueness of the eyes themselves as they clouded, then cleared.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, shoving a hand through his hair. "Did something happen with Spencer?"

She ignored his question in favor of repeating hers. "Was it after the clock tower?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Just answer the question, Carlton—" Her voice shook, not with tears or anger, but just with the desire to _know_. "Was it?"

For a second, she thought he wouldn't answer. Thought he would literally put her out in the hallway and tell her to go home and mind her own damned business and really, she wouldn't have blamed him if he had. He'd lived with this for a long time and finally found a measure of peace and now she was barging back in and demanding answers to which she probably had no goddamned right.

But just as she expected him to open the door and tell her to get the hell out, he instead took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling, and as he exhaled, the man she'd once known—the unhappy one—reappeared.

"Yeah."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I already told you—"

"You can't me there wasn't _more_."

"Knowing you didn't feel the same way is a pretty big thing, O'Hara. Given what it could have cost us."

"But if you felt that strongly—why didn't you try to convince me?" Juliet hated that she might be hurting him all over again, but it suddenly seemed incredibly important to know everything. "Why didn't you fight for me?"

A sharp laugh escaped as he ran his hand through his hair again.

"I did," he answered shortly. "As best as I could."

The days of riding a desk at City Hall flashed in her mind—Carlton dropping by, asking her opinion on a case, trying to draw her back in, asking how she was doing. Of course, Shawn had also been there—always there—always making sure she knew he was _right there_, Jules.

"I had a lot to come to terms with, too, Juliet."

She was startled out of her thoughts by his quiet statement and his rare use of her given name.

"I couldn't do it again if I wasn't sure."

She knew he meant not just a relationship, but a relationship with a partner. She remembered the rumors.

A small smile turned up one side of his mouth, but there wasn't a damned happy thing about it. "The only thing I was sure of was that you didn't feel the same way and the more time went on, it didn't seem as if there was any way you ever would."

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she closed her eyes against the hot, acidic burn. He was right. The only thing that had opened her eyes to the possibility of Carlton was the happiness he'd found with another woman coupled with his confession. Without those two things, she would have bumbled along, as blissfully stupid and unaware as Shawn at his worst.

_God_.

Maybe they really did deserve each other.

Or maybe Carlton was right and she needed to learn to look beyond her own assumptions and idiotic misconceptions.

"Carlton?"

"Yeah, O'Hara?"

"I'm sorry."

The muscles of his throat worked as he swallowed hard. "Yeah, me too," he said, his voice lower and huskier than normal.

"Still friends?"

A more genuine smile crossed his face. "Always."

She stared down at her hands, her fingers twisted together painfully. "As a friend, can I ask you a favor?"

"Anything. Especially if involves shooting Spencer. Did he finally do something?" he added with clear concern.

"Yeah, but it doesn't have to do with me. Not yet. But keep that thought in mind, okay?"

Since she was still staring at her hands, she sensed rather than saw his smile. "Okay—so what's the favor, then?"

Her mouth suddenly dry, every muscle tense, she very nearly couldn't say the words. But forcing herself to swallow, she finally managed to croak out, "Would you… would you… kiss me?"

Dead silence. So silent, Juliet could hear the faint beep as someone on the street below locked their car and the muffled sounds of a door opening and closing somewhere down the hall.

"So I tell you how I felt and all of a sudden, you feel an urge to… what? Experiment?"

It would've been easier if it had been a typical hot-headed, outraged Lassiter response. Then she could have just fumbled an apology and gotten the hell out, dragging the tattered shreds of her dignity. This steady and oh, so cold voice made it all infinitely worse.

"I'm not some damned lab rat that you can pull out, run through his paces for a treat, then put back into his cage after he's outlived his usefulness."

He was entitled. He was so entitled to be this angry.

But dammit, in a way, so was she.

"You never gave me a chance, Carlton—not a real one." She held up a hand, forestalling the protest she saw forming. "I get it—I really do. I get that you tried to let me know, the best way you could at the time and I get why you felt you couldn't go any further. And you know, I'm not going to say that you were wrong either, because I don't honestly think you were. However—" She took a step closer—close enough to feel his body's heat and see the anger and confusion and something… _else_ living deep in those blue eyes.

"In the end, you never actually gave me a chance." She studied each of the features of the partner she knew so very well. And the man beneath that she didn't know at all. "Besides, haven't you ever wondered?"

"Have you?" he shot back, the muscles of his shoulders bunched tight beneath his dress shirt.

Again, the silence descended, as Carlton stood there, angry and confident he knew the answer. Except he didn't—not really.

"Yeah, I have," she admitted. "And it's because you told me how you felt." The anger, the anxiousness, the fear, all fell away until finally, she was left with an overwhelming feeling of sadness. "You never gave me a chance, Carlton. You can at least give me this. Just once—no judgment, no expectations. You're with Marlowe and I respect that, but I just…" She sighed. "I just want to know what I missed. So maybe next time, I'll know better."

Yeah.

Great.

It sounded lame and honestly, kind of pathetic and needy, even to her and all the wonderful justifications she'd come up with for even asking such an outrageous thing. She could only imagine what was running through Carlton's mind as he stood there, stock still, eyes wide and unblinking, a thousand emotions flashing through them, but not a one of them one she could recognize. At least she wasn't seeing pity. If she had, she would have had to resign and leave Santa Barbara immediately. Maybe go to Borneo. They had cops in Borneo, right?

"I gotta go—"

Her hand had only just barely touched the doorknob before she found herself turned and pushed up against the wall. She had only an instant to register that damn, he really was _warm_, and how different he felt from Shawn, tall and lean and surrounding her in a way that felt secure and safe without feeling smothering, before his mouth was on hers and it was then that she _really_ registered how different he was from Shawn.

How different he was from everybody because he was so undeniably… Carlton.

He could have kissed her in a dark room and she would have immediately recognized him.

Quiet, intense, confident, with so very much simmering below the surface—a hint of coffee and of whisky and something more that spoke of twisted sheets and heat and desire.

Juliet had always recognized how very much Carlton _wanted_—he wanted justice, he wanted the bad guys, he wanted a good cup of coffee first thing in the morning, he wanted people to treat the job and him with a respect he felt he'd earned.

She just hadn't understood he'd wanted _her_.

And right behind everything she recognized, came a wave filled with the lesser known—the gentleness she'd glimpsed on rare occasion, the urgency that had him pressing against her as his tongue coaxed her mouth to open to him, stroking and learning her from the inside out, his hands firmly anchored in her hair, tremors running through them as if they desperately wanted to wander, but he was stopping just shy of crossing that particular boundary.

Given what she was feeling, probably good that he had that sort of self-control.

Nothing awkward or sloppy or tentative. This man knew what he wanted and when it was within reach, knew how to obtain it and more importantly, how to treat it.

_Lucky Marlowe… lucky, lucky Marlowe._

_Stupid, stupid Juliet._

Slowly, he drew back, his lashes casting dark shadows on his cheeks. Sliding his hands along her arms to her wrists, he grasped them gently and pulled them from his hair. Immediately, she felt the loss—wanted to feel the thick, surprisingly soft strands once more. Maybe twice.

Maybe a whole lot more, except there was no maybe about it and she knew she couldn't.

She'd made a deal.

"Well." The fingers of one hand touched her mouth, making her shiver. "Okay. At least now we know."

She covered his hand with hers. "Except you knew all along, didn't you?"

He shrugged. "I suspected."

"I'm so sorry, Carlton."

"Don't be." He smiled. "At least we're both happy now, right?"

She'd let him believe that. She'd smile and keep to her promise and they'd remain friends and partners and things would go along much as they had for the past seven years.

What other choice did she have, really? At some point, things with Shawn would either work out or more likely, they wouldn't and by then, Carlton would either be firmly entrenched in his relationship with Marlowe, whom he really loved, she knew—or maybe… just maybe…

But Juliet couldn't let herself think that way. She'd already been selfish enough for two lifetimes.

Late that night, after she'd cried, then cried some more, she stared up at the ceiling and realized—not only did she now firmly believe in the friends-to-lovers trope, another common trope had proven itself to be true:

Lost opportunities.


End file.
